Stars
by AlienZombies
Summary: What leads men, what bridles them, what casts them into judgment. NICKXELLIS


I originally wrote this with the intention of it becoming something else entirely. Then it turned into this.

**Stars**

"For an apocalypse, it ain't so bad," Ellis said amiably as they walked down the highway. The autumn weather was more or less fair, hovering around a comfortable 65 degrees, with only the faintest breeze cooling their breath. The expanse of land around them was more or less deserted. It only them and a long strip of road, black and endless, and even though the idea of walking its length with their battered, throbbing bodies seemed like hell, it was better than the bloody alternative of fighting through the city they had just escaped from.

"I feel pretty good," Coach agreed.

"Limberin' up," Ellis said, smiling. And it hadn't been all bad, really. A little bit of an earth-shaker, but who wouldn't be rattled by shooting another human being in the face?

Nick felt the start of another migraine. He popped some more pills, hoping to catch the pain and keep it at bay before it became the overwhelming crescendo of agony he knew it would become. He had never been more grateful for night, fast approaching on indigo wings, casting the sky in deepening velvet shades. The sun hit the horizon and flared with the force of its impact, glorious golds and violets and pinks and oranges, that lit up their skin and dusted the air with a warm redness like the spray of blood. And then that faded, and there was a quiet, dark blanket all around them, comforting and terrifying.

Things could move in the darkness, unseen.

"I love the outdoors," Ellis said. His voice was the only sound for miles. "Me and Keith used to go campin' like, all the time. What cause, you know, you can do whatever in the woods and ain't no police gonna come meddlin' – not that we was doin' anything bad or anythin', mostly just hollerin' and drinkin' some, maybe shootin' some guns. Or fireworks. And usually we was doin' what most folks would call indecent exposure – what cause it was hot, and such."

After a little while, Ellis's voice faded into a background hum. Everyone just let him talk and fell into the rhythm of walking, the thud of sneakers on pavement, the steady pulse of their heartbeats. It was a relief to fall into something so structured, so predictable. Nick never would have thought he would be glad to be bored.

Up above them, stars glittered and winked at them like piercing, fiery eyes, like pinprick wounds in the fabric of the universe above them. A million stars, a billion stars, a trillion stars. They burned and burned and burned.

Rochelle wasn't doing well. She had been nabbed by a Smoker in the night before, right around her neck, and she had been knocked out instantly. She still had a nasty bruise circling around her throat, but it wasn't just that – something about that tongue was dangerous, kind of acidic to the touch, and the flesh was tender and burned and sort of buckled, like tar when it gets too hot and bubbles over – like overcooked meat, as if the upper layer had been split open, revealing the raw infection beneath. The thing kind of smelled bad, and they were running out of antiseptic. Sometimes she would stop and put her hands on her knees and cough and cough and cough, until blood spattered the pavement.

"Gotta keep movin' on, baby girl," Coach whispered to her, tugging on her sleeve. "Come on, girl, come on."

And she would walk, swaying slightly on her feet, but by God she would push on.

The air tasted muggy, full of lies. It swallowed up Ellis's words until he was only speaking air.

* * *

The sun had barely begun to paint the sky with its feeble shades of blue when Coach got everyone up again.

"Got to keep movin' on. Don't waste a minute of daylight," he was saying. His words ran over Nick like water.

Rochelle and Ellis found some granola bars and ate them hungrily. It wasn't human, in a way, how they attacked that food with trembling hands, eyes glazed, mouths working with a frenzied, mechanical efficiency. They were all hungry, starved, even – between long stretches with nothing to eat at all, and approaching settlements where the food had either already been horded or stolen or spoiled by rain and age. Recently, Ellis had begun to complain of terrible pains in his gut – they would need medicine for that, medicine they didn't have.

Even with the fog of hunger overtaking him, Ellis spotted Nick presently, collecting ammunition. "Hey," he said. "Git on over here."

"What do you want?"

"This. Here. This, for you." Ellis held out an unopened granola bar, and, seeing Nick hesitate, shook it emphatically. "You need somethin'. Everyone needs somethin' to get by on."

"I'm fine."

"Don't you know it's like, a day 'til we get to the next town?"

"I know. I fucking know it, Ellis."

His eyes were wide and hurt. "All right, fine," he muttered, and passed the granola bar to Rochelle.

She looked at Nick, once, her lips pale from blood loss. She ate her breakfast without apology.

Nick's stomach clenched on itself and growled as they stepped out into the sun's early rays, but he ignored it.

* * *

As they exited the roadside convenience store, Ellis trigged the burglar alarm. The ensuing fuckery was more than Nick had ever anticipated. Blood swirled through the air like macabre clouds, stung his eyes and mouth. Someone shot a gas can and started an inferno that blinded everyone and only alerted more nearby Infected to the fray. Rochelle hit the ground and didn't get back up for quite some time, fighting from her knees, unable to breathe, blood dripping from her chin.

After that, they were all battered and more demoralized than ever. They still had a long walk ahead of them.

"I ain't been so tired since God knows when," Coach murmured under his breath. He was limping badly.

"It ain't so bad, really," Ellis was saying. "I mean, what cause of all of the zombies, it ain't the best… but it ain't bad. Had worse." He was smiling, grinning, even as the tears filled his eyes. Nick saw them.

"Overalls…"

"I been through worse. This ain't bad at all." Ellis's voice dragged through his throat and came out heavy.

Nick laid a hand on his shoulder; he recoiled with a nervous laugh.

"Naw, naw, don't worry, I'm happy as a clam," he said. His mouth smiled, even though his eyes told a different story. He touched Nick's arm, just barely, with the tips of his fingers, and then his hand fell away.

Nick understood. He hefted his shotgun back on his shoulder, and they walked on.

When the dark shape moved from the left, blotting out the sun, he only saw a streak of gold before the blackness fell upon him with cold finality.

* * *

"Nick, Nick, man…"

"I'm fine," Nick snapped. He lashed out blindly. "Quit touching me. Get your hands off me."

Ellis made a conflicted whining noise, pawing at him, stroking his wounded face. "Aww, shit, man, Nick… You gotta listen. Hey…"

The line of the earth shifted sharply and Nick slammed hard into a nearby wall. His vision sucked in on itself and turned black, just for a second.

"Jesus Christ…" he muttered. The crowbar slipped from his hands, slick with blood and sweat, and it hit the floor with a clatter that reverberated up Nick's spine and into the dead center of his brain with awful clarity. It hurt, God did it hurt.

"Goddamn sonsabitches, goddamn fuckers," Coach was growling. "Goddamn Charges. Bitches. Goddam."

"Nick." Rochelle was in front of him. She had pushed Ellis aside. "Hey, buddy, hey."

"I'm fine," Nick said. His jaw flapped uselessly.

"Come here," she said impatiently, and thrust her thumb in her mouth, pinning him still with her free hand. Nick struggled like a fish on a line, and for some reason his usual strength was failing him. He felt the pill push between his lips, snapped his teeth over it. Rochelle clamped his mouth shut like one would clamp an alligator's mouth shut, and she held him there sternly until he swallowed, unable to bear the bitterness of the dissolving medicine.

He moaned, and retched, trying to bring it back up, but he failed. Blood dribbled out his nose.

"You needed that," Rochelle whispered. "I didn't want to do it to you. Sorry, honey… Really."

Nick spat. Something hit the pavement with a wet plopping noise. He looked, but couldn't see.

For an indeterminable amount of time, he was unconscious. When he came to, he was still walking, still moving; Ellis had an arm around his waist and was bearing most of his weight.

"Let me go," Nick rasped.

He had never seen Ellis look so determined, so angry. The light struck off of his eyes, and they glowed like stars.

"No, man. Ain't ever lettin' you go."

Ellis would carry him to the ends of the earth. Nick let a thick blackness like night swallow him whole, with Ellis's searing eyes guiding him through the dark.

* * *

He swam through fire.

He didn't know it, not in that state, curled in his own center where it was darkest and coldest, but he had a climbing fever. His skin was clammy to the touch, but his brain was burning. They gave him water and stripped off his coat and shirt and laid him on the cool metal of a table in the saferoom.

Ellis pulled up a chair and sat by him. Nick, strangely, could sense him, a spot of shade in a world lit by fire. His eyes were bright, sparkling pits, twin beacons. Nick called to him, then screamed for him, but the roar of the inferno ate his words. He was as good as alone here, in this forest he had set ablaze himself, and he was drowning in smoke and heat.

Somewhere, a helicopter was waiting, would take them away. He had to keep on moving.

Ellis waited patiently for him, the hand of God reaching elbow-deep into the bloody, smoldering pit of hell; Nick reached, missed, and began to move his feet.

He ran towards him, pedaling flames, and when he came crashing to the surface he came up screaming, scaring Ellis half to death. The world came back in pulsating noise and shades of gray, and for a moment Nick wasn't sure if he was dead or alive. Ellis stared at him with huge, startled eyes.

"Nick, man… Nick, are you okay?"

Ellis put a hand on Nick's face, and his palm was almost icy to the touch against Nick's burning skin.

"That was fucked up," Nick said, smiling wanly. He belched and blood flecked his chin.

"Oh, God," Rochelle murmured, her face paling.

Nick felt nothing. Not even fear.

* * *

"We got to get movin'," Coach said softly, swinging his shotgun over his shoulder. The sun was rising in the distance, still just a foggy silver blur yet. They had been in the saferoom for more than a day, waiting for Nick to recover, but it wasn't looking good.

Coughing weakly, Rochelle packed away their meager rations. Her hands shook. "What about Nick?"

"I can carry him," Ellis said. His voice was earnest, but the statement was so ridiculous that it almost passed as a joke.

Coach sighed uncomfortably, running a hand over the top of his bald head, and he turned to look at Nick's prone form on the tabletop. "Think you can walk, boy?"

Nick sat up. Pain screamed from the base of his spine and from the center of his chest, his head – where he had been bashed into this wall, that fence. Something seemed to snap from within him and he couldn't keep back the small cry of pain that burst from his mouth. Ellis laid a gentle hand on his arm, shushed him, urged him to his feet.

"Come on. You seen worse, ain't you? Come on, get on up."

Hunching where he sat, which hurt him worse, Nick took in deep, hitched breaths. Everything pained him. The shrieking interference in his head blinded him, and he was dimly aware of the blood running unchecked from between his lips like drool, pooling in his lap.

"This is no good," Rochelle whispered. She ran a hand over her own mutilated throat, which was becoming puffy with infection. "Oh, God, look at him…"

"I can do it," Nick rasped, trying to ease himself onto his feet, feeling that if he at least stood he could make it, he could keep going. But every motion was agonizing, every breath like a hammer to his ribs. At one point, he was completely blind, breathless; his feet brushed the concrete floor, and he collapsed. Ellis was there, caught him, guided him back onto the table.

"You done good," he murmured over and over to Nick, into his hair, as he laid him back down. "Hush up, now… Quit that, now… Just get some shut-eye, all right? You done good."

Heaving with the effort to breathe, Nick obediently fell asleep. Ellis's voice led him down and down.

* * *

They wanted to move on, but couldn't. Nick could hardly stand, and being carried hurt him too much, caused him to launch into long, deteriorating coughing fits that left him drained and bloody. The others sat around and split the rations carefully, never quite looking Nick in the face, and he knew what they were thinking, coldly realized what it all meant.

They were waiting for him to die.

It didn't bother him. He had been on this end of pain before – only once, before he learned to strike first and fast and to ask questions later. He had been certain he would die then, too, until the cops picked him up. He would never forget that call to Cookie, the hollow look in her eyes when she came and got him. He remembered something, oddly, in a disconnected sort of way, that the night he had laid outside the bar, bleeding and swirling in the soggy dregs of his mistakes, that the sky had been black, without stars. A city nightscape. Nothingness, the gaping maw of hell, closed lovingly over the city like a lover's mouth.

There were no stars to guide him.

In those lingering, painful days, only Ellis stayed by Nick's side, when he could bring himself to. He told stories, which didn't help, really. Nick could have liked less to wake up and fall asleep every hour to Ellis's expressive voice, though, he supposed, there were worse things to wake up to. Far worse.

"Hey, Overalls," he gargled, and Ellis smiled at him thinly.

"Yep?"

"It's all right. You know that, right? I'm eating up your time."

Ellis's eyes went hard. He glanced over at Rochelle, putting together a Molotov, and Coach, staring out the window. "I don't know what you're talkin' bout."

"Come on, Ellis." Speaking hurt his throat, made his lungs ache – but still Nick talked. "We're running out of everything. Food, and shit. We're running out of time."

"That don't mean nothin'. We're in the middle of the city. There's more."

"Are you listening to me?"

"Shit," Ellis muttered. He started biting at his lip like he did when he was upset. It registered with Nick that they were too familiar, that he recognized such little quirks in him, could read him so easily already. Admittedly, he had a talent for seeing through people – it was his job – and Ellis was a poor actor. But now even the most subtle clues resonated.

Desperate, exhausted, Nick tried again. "Ellis. Are you listening to me?"

"I'm listenin'. I hear you."

"You could make it to the evac center in less than two days. You know that, right?"

Ellis ground his teeth and set his jaw. His eyes narrowed out, and if Nick didn't know better, he would have thought that Ellis looked almost… angry.

"You listen here," Ellis said in a tight sort of voice, planting his hands on the table. "Look me in the face and you tell me you ain't gonna make it."

Nick groaned. "God dammit, Overalls, don't be trying to play chicken with me, not now…"

But Ellis shook his head sharply, just once.

"Tell me. _Tell me you ain't gonna make it_!" His voice was broken, and the tears were coming down uninhibited and quiet. His mouth trembled and his breath came in low, uneven jerks. "Go on! Say it!"

"Ellis…"

Ellis smacked him. It barely registered on his threshold of pain, but still stunned him. "I had just about enough of you and your smart ol' mouth! Go on and say it if you're gonna say it, you slithery sonofabitch!"

The words were black and heavy like bullets. Their report left the room silent, except for the brush of the wind against the door, the uneasy eyes of Coach and Rochelle from the opposite corner. It was difficult to even breathe.

Then Nick started to laugh, surprising them both, and as he laughed it felt more like panic and hysteria than anything else, like he couldn't stop, and it hurt, God, it _hurt _to laugh but he couldn't shut it up, it came in a huge bubbling, shrieking rush from the deepest pit of him, echoing off the walls like the manic screaming of the dead. Ellis stared down at him with wide, horrified eyes still leaking tears. He took his hands away.

"No!" Nick gasped, and this seemed to break the spiraling darkness, just for a minute. "No, Overalls, I'm sorry… Sorry, man."

Ellis shook his head, covering his mouth with one trembling, bloodstained hand. He didn't speak, just drew in those sharp, hiccupping breaths.

Nick reached out for him, pushing aside the shadows invading the corners of his vision. "Come here."

Sobbing now, broken, Ellis finally moved forward, rested his forehead against Nick's own and moaned. "You can't be doin' this to me, not now, not after all that shit, you can't, you _can't_…"

"Shut up, Overalls, just shut up…"

Ellis was quiet. He put his face in his hands and was quiet. Something about this made Nick more uneasy than ever before.

"What are you waiting for?" he rasped at Coach. "Pop one in me."

"I ain't gonna shoot you," Coach said softly. "I won't do it."

Nick looked at Rochelle. Her lips trembled and the tears started for her, too, thick and constant.

"Ro," he whispered. He begged her without words, couldn't get enough air in to form them. The blood boiled in his mouth and it tasted awful; he sucked it back in with every breath and it hurt him.

Ellis shook his head, moaning, saying, "No, no, no…"

Nick ignored him. When he spoke, his voice was lost in the bubbling gargle of blood and spit and bile. "Rochelle…"

"I can't," she replied in a tiny voice. "God help me, I can't do it."

"You're comin' with us," Ellis whispered to him. "Do you hear? You ain't givin' up now."

Nick couldn't breathe. His vision swam and doubled and then began to speckle into blackness. A high, sweet ringing started in the back of his head, rolling forward, before it swallowed him a tender, solid sleep.

* * *

He woke in a shopping cart.

The first thing he was aware of was horrible pain. Every bump, every rattle of the cart sent vibrations of whirling agony through every fiber of his being. Despite himself, he moaned lowly in his throat, his head lolling; he saw the sky, brilliant and blue, cloudless. Distantly, he heard the chatter of an assault rifle; and nearer still, the smoky put-put-put of a handgun.

"Ellis?" he asked, and Ellis appeared, as if in answer to a prayer.

"Hey, Nick," he said in a tender sort of way. "You still holdin' out?"

"Guess I am," Nick answered, though it hurt, hurt so much to speak. He worked up a smile and reached out with one trembling, half-numb hand; Ellis obligingly ducked his head and let Nick stroke his fingertips over the broad sweep of his cheekbone, down his temple. "Good to see you, Overalls…"

"You keep on wakin' up, and I'll keep on bein' here," Ellis promised. His eyes were wet and his smile seemed heavier than it had ever been. "You go back to sleep now. We still got a long way yet."

"Give me a gun. I can help."

A quiet laugh. There was too much sadness in it. Ellis shook his head. Nick accepted this, knew he probably wouldn't be able to lift the thing anyway. He coughed and blood roiled in his throat.

"Hurts so bad…"

"Don't I know it. Here." Ellis provided him some pills from his pocket. "Choke 'em down."

Nick did, was out again. Ellis's bright, smiling eyes led him through the black waters of sleep, kept his head above the undertow that spoke of a cold finality, far too close for comfort.

* * *

He woke in half-hour intervals, it seemed like. Each time, it seemed harder to fight through that cobwebby barrier between thick sleep and thin reality. Ellis was always there to receive him when he crossed back over, assuring him that he would make it, that everything was going to be all right. His eyes betrayed his lie. They both knew it.

"Put a fork in me, El," Nick whispered at last. "Just quick."

Ellis looked at him with a hard, cold face, except for the slight trembling in his mouth. "I ain't doin' it," he said. "Do you hear? You're gonna make it and ain't no way I'm gonna shoot you like no goddamn broke-legged cow."

"Selfish sonofabitch."

They marched on around Nick's shopping cart, blood-drenched, a comedic funeral procession. Twenty miles to safety, fifteen. Time seemed to be no object, but the distance, the incredible distance, like the journey to heaven.

Nick hated it, being trapped like this, in this useless body, feeling so weak and tired. Even his thoughts were slow and cycling, churned in blood and fever. He wanted to rage and fight, but there was no such strength left within him.

The city engulfed them. They walked.

"Keep your chin up," Ellis told Nick, who refused to dip back into sleep, knowing what waited for him there. "You'll make it. God, I promise you. I'll see you through this."

Nick wasn't sure what to make of this. It was hard to think with his brain swelling and pounding within his skull. "Ellis…"

"No," Ellis murmured, and turned away. He dragged his forearm across his eyes, pretending to be tired, but Nick had seen the tears.

* * *

When they made it to the evacuation center – another football stadium, probably because it was a solid landmark, surrounded by parking lot, which made it difficult for Infected to approach without being dispatched with efficiency – Rochelle let out a cry like a bird and fell to her knees. It took several minutes to get her up again, so overcome with relief and tears. She sobbed into the pavement, and Coach stood beside her in support, steepling his hands together to pray.

Nick was unconscious. He didn't see Ellis smile down at him, but he felt it, like a touch of sunlight.

"Get yourself on up," Ellis told him, drawing him from the gullet of death. "We're here, now. We're safe."

Nick opened his eyes. All he saw was brilliance, the glare of a million stars, as the sun set on the line of the horizon. His mouth worked without sound, and all he could bring in was a tiny, whistling gasp for air.

Ellis brushed Nick's hair back affectionately. "Come on, Mr. Gamblin' Man. We're here."

With great effort, Nick managed a smile. From the way Ellis looked away, he knew his teeth were coated with blood. His tongue was dry.

They approached the line of military personnel slowly, hands held up. Rochelle wept slowly, constantly, her head bowed as if in repentance. The blazing eye of God sank below the horizon, filling the sky with a dull burning orange like fire, and then blackness.

"Four survivors," Coach said, loudly and clearly, as soon as they were instructed to stop. "Two injured."

"I'm fine," Rochelle rasped, shielding her throat with one trembling hand.

"What about this one?" one of the soldiers asked, pointing at Nick with the barrel of his gun. Ellis moved himself between them with an instinctive jerk that made Nick smile.

"He's ain't sick. He's just beat up some."

Nick worked up the energy to wave at them. The soldiers looked back on him with blank eyes, like orbs of stone.

"We'll take care of him," one of them said at last. He came up, taking the cart from Rochelle, and steered Nick away.

They had nearly vanished behind a cardboard partition before Ellis cried out "Wait!" and took after them. He tore off his hat and tossed it, though for what reason Nick couldn't say.

"Will we see him again?" Ellis asked the soldier.

The soldier cocked his head, as if listening for some distant noise. He had a sharp, unreadable face that Nick didn't like. "Sure you will. All survivors are transferred to a station in the Midwest."

Nick looked up at Ellis, saw the belief in his eyes. He held out a hand, and Ellis took it and then, unexpectedly, kissed it. His mouth was chapped and warm.

"Stay strong, you hear? I'm expectin' to see you," Ellis told him, his voice low, swollen with the last dregs of emotion. The shock was coming next. "They're gonna fix you up right, you'll see."

Nick wanted to speak, to say so many things, couldn't get enough air to form the words, but Ellis shook his head, leaned down to kiss his forehead, smeared with grime and blood and dirt. He didn't care at all. Probably, they both didn't need the words.

The sky was pitch black.

"Get back in line to be processed," the soldier said with clear impatience. "Then we'll get you out of here."

"I'm expectin' to see him," Ellis repeated in a stepped way. "All right?"

The soldier didn't answer. Ellis turned and shuffled back towards the others. He was limping – how had Nick missed it before? Some part of him vaguely dreamed of a happier time, soon, where both of them could stand with dignity.

The soldier dragged him behind the divider. He had brought his gun.

Nick understood. Dimly, some part of him was relieved.

When they heard the sound, that crack in the darkness, none of the other survivors flinched or even turned, so used to the sound of bullets, so numb with relief. As they passed the soldiers waiting by the buses, they thanked them over and over.

- **the end**


End file.
